


Here we stand - and finally, I see

by lordhellebore



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Family, Fix-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2020-02-10 23:49:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18670900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lordhellebore/pseuds/lordhellebore
Summary: In which Jorah survives the battle against the Night King, and Daenerys realises whom she truly loves. She only hopes it's not too late. Plus: In which everyone actually communicates with each other, which D&D "kind of forgot" was a thing.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Guys, this is me trying to imagine something better than what D&D gave us in S8. _Everyone_ deserved better, but especially Dany.

He refuses to die. That’s the only way she can think about it. He has been pierced by swords and spears half a dozen times, blood is all over him in the flickering firelight, and Dany knows, she _knows_ humans aren’t supposed to survive these injuries. Ser Jorah should have fallen a long time ago - yet he simply refuses to die.

‘For me,’ she thinks as he struggles to his feet yet again as more wights approach. ‘It’s all for me.’

And hasn’t it always been? Every step, every breath he’s taken since they met - it’s all been for her. And, she thinks as she reaches out to steady him, touching his arm, she never appreciated it the way she should have, until far too late, until he had been sick with little chance of survival. And even then...but there are wights all around them, and there’s no time to think anymore. Dany draws a deep breath and tightens her hold on her blade.

The wights are closing in, and they defend themselves as best they can. Stabs and slashes, stabs and slashes, one enemy after the other until it’s like she’s never done anything else but fight wights and the terror she feels - for herself and him both. Each time he throws himself in front of her she’ll fear that it will be the last, that this time, if he gets hit, he won’t get up again. And he is hit again, more than once, and while she can prevent it sometimes, more often than not she can’t. Her strength is dwindling, and so is his, and soon even his stubborn refusal won’t be enough.

They can’t keep going, they just can’t - the circle around them is getting smaller and smaller, and the wights won’t stop coming. They can’t fight off hundreds; Ser Jorah can barely stand, and if he falls, she won’t be able to defend him by herself. 

This is it, then, Dany thinks as she rams her blade into yet another wight’s face. There’s three coming at them from the right, two from the left, another two from the front, and she can’t think about what might be behind her. This is the end.

She doesn’t know how they manage to kill them, doesn’t remember anything but a blur of motion and both their screams - and then, silence. Confused, Dany watches as the sea of enemies around them falters, as they crash to the ground, untouched. It’s over, and she is alive. Relief and wild triumph surge through her heart - then Ser Jorah slowly sinks to his knees.

 _No_ , she thinks as she watches him fall, as she drops her blade and hurries to his side, touching his bloodied face, _no, this can’t be_. For a moment, she had forgotten about his injuries and that he should have been dead already if not for his iron will, his devotion to her. Even now, his gaze is seeking hers, his love shining through the dirt and blood and exhaustion on his handsome old face.

“No,” she whispers, “no, please…” She can’t lose him. 

His lips are trembling, attempting to form words with his dying breath, and Dany knows what he would say, if he could.

_Khaleesi._

_Yes_ , she wants to say, _yes, I know, and I love you too_ , but her voice won’t obey her. How she did not understand it sooner, she doesn’t know. How could she be so stupid? Anyone else, she realises as she cups his cheek with trembling fingers, _anyone_ but him, she will survive. Even Jon - she’ll grieve and she’ll hurt, but she will survive, as she always has. But this...

His eyes close, then, and she can’t see his chest rise and fall anymore. Dany holds on tight and cries her loss into the burning, ruined night.

.-.-.-.

“How is he?”

Maester Wolken carefully pulls the furs over Ser Jorah before he gets up and turns to face her.

“It’s a miracle that he is alive, Your Grace. He should have died out there from blood loss, for all I know. He still might - it’s likely, in fact. But if he survives the night…” He trails off, and Dany knows he doesn’t want to give her false hope. 

“I understand. Thank you, Maester.”

The man nods and, after a short bow, leaves the room. Dany sits on the edge of the bed, leaning down to Ser Jorah’s ashen face, her fingers finding their way into his thinning hair. 

“Don’t give up,” she whispers. “Please don’t leave me now. Not after we survived this. I need you. I...” But she can’t say it. Not when he can’t hear her - and not when they’re not alone. “Live,” she tells him instead, and kisses his forehead before she gets up again.

On the other side of the room, Sansa Stark is sitting by Theon Greyjoy’s bedside. Dany knows they will likely never be friends, but she can’t help feeling for her. She had seen her face when they had carried Lord Greyjoy inside, and if their heartfelt reunion at his arrival in Winterfell could still have been mistaken for friendship, Lady Sansa’s grief at seeing him so close to death is too familiar for there to be any doubt in Dany’s mind.

“Will he live?”

Lady Sansa tries to maintain her usual cool mask as she looks up at Dany, who has walked up beside her, but fails - fear and exhaustion are written all over her face, like everyone who survived the battle. Like herself, Dany suspects. 

“We can’t be certain. The blood loss…” She draws a deep breath, no doubt to get her shaking voice under control. “Maester Wolken said if he lives through the night, there might be hope.”

Dany swallows hard. “I see. I hope he will. Jon told me how it happened, that he faced the Night King alone. He was very brave.”

“He was,” Lady sansa agrees. “He _is_.” She looks over to Ser Jorah’s bed. “What about him?”

“The same. He has a chance, but…” She hakes her head. “I never would have survived without him. He defended me with all his strength, until the last moment, like Lord Greyjoy defended your brother.” 

_We love the best, the bravest men_ , she doesn’t say.

“How long has he been with you?”

Dany can hear the effort in Lady Sansa’s voice, but she’s glad that at least for the moment, she is trying. “Seven years. Ever since - he’s my oldest friend.”

“Then I hope you get to keep him. We’ve all lost too many people already.” Lady Sansa gets up. “I’d like to stay, but we should see to the others. They need all the help they can get.”

It’s true - since dawn, they’ve been treating the wounded and collecting the dead for burning, and the Lady of Winterfell and the Queen should show their faces and do their part; it helps to keep people motivated. Yet Dany, too, wishes that she could stay. She throws one last look at Ser Jorah: he looks frail and old under the heavy furs, and she hates it - that she wasted their time, possibly forever, and that there’s another war still before her that she might have to fight without him. 

When will it all end, and whom will she have to lose next?

.-.-.-.-.

“What kind of person climbs on a fucking dragon? A madman! Or a king!”

 _A queen_ , Dany wants to tell the red-bearded warrior, Tormund Giantsbane. _A Targaryen queen who raised these dragons, who has ridden them into battle more often than Jon ever will._ But she says nothing and simply raises her goblet, smiling at Jon. It would be of no use. Not here, never here.

Giantsbane had toasted her earlier, but his true loyalty, his _love_ , lies with Jon. As does the people’s. Jon and the Starks - even if his sisters were to accept her, she is not sure the Northerners ever will. She didn’t miss that they cheered for Lady Arya louder than they did - ever would, she believes now - for her.

She tries to tell herself that it’s normal: the Starks have ruled the North for thousands of years, so of course they would inspire more loyalty here than any king or queen sitting the Iron Throne. But as she looks around the great hall at the feasting lords and smallfolk - the wildlings making merry with Jon, the Lannister brothers laughing with Lady Brienne, and all the others - their laughter rings hollow in her ears. She can feel that they will always look at her with suspicion. 

They’ll never truly accept a ruler far from the south again. They may bow to her force, if Jon commands it, like their forebears did to Aegon the Conqueror, but they’ll always long for the king they chose for themselves. And if they ever find out that he’s got a claim to the Iron Throne, a claim that is better than hers...

Abruptly, Dany stands. She can’t take it to be surrounded by them for one more moment.

The castle is dark away from the hall, her steps echoing in the bare stone corridors. She had hoped she’d feel relieved to get away, but even though the sounds of the feast are fading behind her, there is no relief. She can still see their faces before her - laughing, talking, _belonging_. Where does she belong? She only knows it’s not here. 

On the Iron Throne, she tries to tell herself. That’s where she belongs - _it_ belongs _to her_. Only what if the other kingdoms are just the same as the North, what if it never stops, if she’ll never be welcome anywhere? Can she rule the seven kingdoms like that, live like that all her life?

It’s only when she opens the door that she realises her feet have taken her to Ser Jorah’s chamber - and maybe, she thinks as she sits down at his bedside and covers his limp hand with her own, _this_ is where she belongs. At his side, as he belongs at hers. Maybe she can have this at least. He’ll always want her. 

For a while, she watches him sleep in the soft candlelight, hoping it will help calm her. He’ll recover, and when he is well again, she will tell him about her feelings. They’ll take the Iron Throne together, rule together - he will be her Prince Consort, and they’ll never be parted again.

But the calm will not come. Instead, she feels stifled, her thoughts racing as much as they did at the feast. What about Jon, what will he do if she leaves him - will he still support her and her claim? And what if Ser Jorah won’t make it? She can’t think of it. He _has_ to live. What will it all even be worth if he’s not with her? Dany pulls back her hand, breathing deeply to force back the tears. She can’t look at him any longer; she has to get out of here.

On her way to her chambers, she can only hope that she won’t be disturbed anymore today. Everyone should be busy celebrating, or, she thinks sadly, mourning the dead. Either way, she can’t face them. Maybe tomorrow --

“Dany.”

Jon. She had been too deep in thought and hadn’t heard him behind her. Almost, she wants to ignore him, keep on walking and close her door in his face, but she has avoided him all day. _He_ never tried to make her feel unwelcome here. He deserves better. So she stops, listening to his heavy footstps as he approaches - but she can’t make herself turn around.

“Dany,” he says again, in his deep, warm voice, in the same tone he used when he told her he loved her. She prays to gods she has never known that he won’t say it now; she doesn’t know what she’d do - already, she feels like screaming, like crawling out of her skin at the touch of his hand on her shoulder.

“I wanted…about the Iron Throne…”

 _I don’t care!_ The vehemence of the thought stuns her, and it’s only by painfully gritting her teeth that she manages not to scream it into the dark corridor in front of her. _I don’t care about the Throne, about the North, about any of it! All it brings me is misery, one place after the other where I’ll never be more than a stranger, even as queen! All I want is to be happy with the man I love, in a place that feels like home, like the house with the red door when I was little. How did it all come to this?_

But she says nothing of it; she swallows the words through a rising taste of bile, her throat achess, her stomach is turning, her ears ringing - and then, somehow, she is on her knees with her face hidden in her hands, crying, deep, wrenching sobs that make her head hurt and her body shake with the force of it. She wishes the Night King had got her; she wishes the Night King had got them all. Then she wouldn’t have to deal with any of it anymore.

Then arms settle around her, her face comes to rest against warm furs, and despite how she felt just moments ago, now she clings to Jon, holding on tightly as he rocks her, waiting for her to cry herself out. She is grateful that he’s not trying to hush her, letting her cry until she has no tears left - and even then, she doesn’t want to get up or talk, and he doesn’t make her.

In the end, it’s Dany who pulls back, drying her face with the sleeve of her gown.

“Thank you.” She feels shaky but calmer now, more ready to face what must be done. “We should talk, somewhere we can’t be overheard. Let’s go to my rooms.”

Jon nods and helps her up, then they walk the rest of the way in silence, though he keeps his arm around her, and she doesn’t protest - it feels safer that way. When they arrive, he walks her to the bed and they sit down side by side. There is an awkward silence - should she explain what happened just now, what made her lose her composure like this?

“The Throne,” Jon finally says again. “I don’t want it.” It doesn’t come as a surprise. She should have known, Dany tells herself as he looks at her, so sincere, so earnest. “I’ve never...all I ever wanted -“

“...was here in the North,” she finishes for him, and he nods.

“My home. My family.”

It was obvious all along, but maybe she didn’t realise it because it’s a thing she has never had. 

“I have to tell them who I am. Sansa and Arya,” he says, and Dany grips his hand tightly.

“You can’t! When you told me… All I could think about was how you had a better claim than me, how you’d be able to take it from me. I’ve worked so hard for it, all these years, and then…” She shakes her head. “Suddenly there is a male heir, and I was frightened…” It’s hard to say - she doesn’t like admitting weakness. But she can’t accomplish anything here without talking to Jon honestly, she understands that now. 

“I _am_ frightened. If anyone else finds out, even your sisters - the lords of Westeros might not care that you don’t want it. You’re Rhaegar’s son, they’ll see you as the rightful Targaryen heir, not me. There’s no telling what might happen. If they know, it won’t matter what you want; it will take on a life of its own, and you won’t be able to control it, or what it does to people.”

Jon frowns. “Sansa And Arya, they won’t do it if I ask them not to tell anyone. I can trust them. And even if it got out somehow, I’d refuse the throne. They can’t _make_ me king if I don’t want it.”

Dany smiles, but it’s sad. “They made you king here, didn’t they?”

“I din’t even really want -”

“I know.” It’s so obvious now, and she had been so blind. “I know. But _they_ want you. It’s you and Sansa they followed into this battle, not me.”

He’s searching for words, but he is failing, and Dany knows it’s because he knows that she’s right. During the feast, he looked happy, but now exhaustion and helplessness are written all over his face, and although she’s realised that she never loved him the way she thought she did, it still hurts deep in her heart to see him like this. Maybe it’s now that she makes her decision, or maybe she’d known it already when he first said he didn’t want the Iron Trone - it doesn’t matter. What does matter is that it feels right when she says it. 

“You can have it, you know. The North. Your crown.”

Jon looks at her in confusion. “But I said I don’t...I bent the knee!”

“Yes. And I’ll never forget it - and neither should they. That you were willing to exchange your title for their lives. If anything, that proves that you’re worthy of being their king. But I was thinking - if we give them this…”

“They might accept you,” he says, a spark of understanding lighting in his eyes. “And they might support your claim. I...I do have to tell my sisters, but if you concede the North…”

“...then maybe that will be enough for them, and they’ll keep the secret.” There’s a part of her that’s screaming at her not to do this, to demand of him that he tell nobody, that telling anyone at all would be a betrayal. But she feels so tired, and she wants peace. Maybe this is the way. And maybe - though she doesn’t dare think about it more deeply - maybe she hopes that if she lets go of the North, she’ll be allowed to keep something else. Something that, no matter how much she tells herself it shouldn’t be, is far more important to her than this kingdom.

She hesitates - telling him might tear down whatever progress they just made. But they’ve come this far, Jon’s arm is still around her, warm and comforting, and she finds that she wants to trust him.

“I’ve a confession of my own to make.”

“What is it?”

“It’s...about you and me…” She doesn’t quite know how to go on. How can she reject him and tell him that she loves another? It was easy to dismiss Daario, she realised long ago that he never truly mattered to her, but this is different.

“Dany.” Slowly, he pulls his hand from under hers, his arm falling away from her shoulders. “I love you, but we’re... we can’t risk - it’s not right.”

At first, she can only stare at him, stunned. Then relief floods through her. “You mean - you’re telling me you don’t want to be with me?”

Jon shakes his head. “I want to, but...we can’t. Please, you’ve got to understand.”

“I do. It’s… I wanted to say the same. We can’t be together. But there’s another reason beyond who we are.”

“What is it?” Jon looks confused, and she still isn’t sure she’s doing the right thing, but it was he who said it first - that they have no future. So she hopes she knows him well enough by now and plunges on.

“I...there’s someone else I love.” He goes stiff, the hurt clear in his eyes, and Dany instinctively reaches out for his hand again - she’s glad that he doesn’t pull away. “I’m sorry. I never meant - I didn’t realise it until I thought he had died.”

“Ser Jorah?” Jon asks after no more than a moment of thought, and Dany nods.

“I never...he’s loved me for many years. I thought I didn’t reciprocate, that I appreciated him as my advisor, my closest friend, but never more than that. Even when he was ill with greyscale, I didn’t understand, or maybe I just didn’t _want_ to see it. But last night, out there on the battlefield…”

It’s too much, the memory of him lying there, lifeless, of how she’d thought she had lost him forever. Dany doesn’t realise that she is crying again until Jon wipes her cheeks with his sleeve - so gentle that she feels even more guilty for her feelings, and yet glad that he understands.

“I’m sorry, Jon.” She covers his hand with her own. “I do love you…”

“...but not the same as him.”

“No. Not the same as him.”

He looks into her eyes for what seems like a long while, then he nods. “Well. Since it wouldn’t have worked between us anyway...I’m glad for you. Truly, I am.”

“Thank you. I wish…I don’t even know. That it would have gone different. That I hadn’t hurt you.” 

Jon smiles - it’s a visible effort, and she’s beyond grateful that he makes it, that she was right in her assessment of him. “Me too, but I’m glad we met nonetheless.” Slowly, he puts his arm around her again, and when he pulls her into an embrace, she returns it.

“You’re family,” he says, and she closes her eyes, nodding into the heavy fur at his shoulder.

“Family,” she agrees. It’s good to have family again - she has friends, loyal advisors and subjects, but family… There had only ever been Viserys, and he and Jon couldn’t have been more different. For a moment, she wonders how her life might have gone if he had been more like Jon. Would she still be in Essos instead of here, would she ever have felt the wish to be queen? She might have been content with a simple life, but she’ll never know.

“You know that doesn’t change anything, right? About me supporting your claim.”

Dany pulls back to look at him. “I’d hoped you would say that.”

“You came North to help us save all of Westeros. Now we’ll go south and help you claim what is yours - and put Cersei Lannister in her place. She got my father, my _true_ father, killed with her scheming. And his wife and my brother. The North remembers.”

 _The North remembers._ She has heard it before. She only hopes that the North will remember, too, who came to their aid when their need was greatest.


	2. Chapter 2

Dany looks around at the people gathered in Winterfell’s solar, which has stayed untouched by the destruction wreaked two nights before. 

Lady Sansa and Lady Arya are standing next to each other, their expressions wary, though Dany means to see a little more warmth in the older sister. Lady Arya is still a mystery to her - from her incredible fighting skills that outmatch most of the warriors Dany has seen to her quiet coldness, there’s nothing about her that Dany can make sense of, and she wonders how it all came to be.

Next to them, in his wheeled chair, there’s Brandon Stark, who confuses her even more, although after what magic she has seen in Essos as well as here, it’s not impossible to believe the story of the Three-Eyed Raven. And Samwell Tarly, staying in the background deliberately - Dany still can’t look at him without feeling guilty, although what she did was within her right.

Her hands are shaking, and she is clasping them tightly in front of her stomach - part of her still insists that this is wrong, that she is destroying whatever future her claim might have. There’s still time to take it back, she can still demand of Jon to stay silent. But then his hand is on her shoulder, squeezing in encouragement, and she ignores the thought. They’re going to do this, they’re going to convince them, together.

“Thank you all for meeting with us.” 

Lady Sansa nods politely. “Your messenger said you wanted to discuss something with us, Your Grace?”

“Two things, though actually, they’re connected.” Dany hesitates for only a moment, then takes a deep breath before plunging right in. “Jon and I talked last night, after the feast, and we came to a decision regarding the North.”

Lady Sansa makes to speak, but Dany doesn’t give her the time to protest. “We determined that the North will stay an independent kingdom, as proclaimed by your brother Robb, whom Jon succeeds as King in the North. There will be no deference from the North to the Iron Throne, no tributes or oath of fealty.” Despite the feeling of rightness last night when she had made up her mind, the words feel like a defeat, and it hurts to say them. But there is no going back now on what she has spoken into existence.

Except for Brandon, they all look stunned; even Lady Arya is frowning in confusion instead of carefully blank, and though it’s a meagre consolation, seeing their faces fills Dany with satisfaction.

“I’m - I’m glad you came to that conclusion, Your Grace, as will be the lords when we tell them,” Lady Sansa says after the first shock is over and she has composed herself. “What is it that you wish for in return?”

Dany has expected the question, and yet it stings - they can’t see what kind of sacrifice she is making, and that she _should_ be getting something in return. The North is hers by birthright, as are the other kingdoms. _Jon’s by birthright,_ she corrects herself, and it stings even worse.

“Your confidence. The matter in which it is needed is something that requires an explanation, and since it’s Jon’s story, it’s he who should tell it.” At her words, understanding blooms on Samwell Tarly’s face.

Jon’s sisters turn to him expectantly - his cousins in truth, though Dany doubts he would ever see them as anything but siblings, even if his parentage were common knowledge. He looks uncomfortable with all eyes on him, and now it’s Dany who provides encouragement, placing her hand on his upper arm and leaving it there as he speaks.

“It’s about my mother,” Jon says. “I know now who she was; Bran saw her.”

“She’s dead, then?” Lady Arya asks.

“She is. She died in childbed. This - it will sound strange, but...Father...he’s not -” Jon shakes his head. “I don’t even know how to say it.” 

Dany cedes her space by Jon’s side as Lady Sansa and Arya step forward, not without a feeling of regret. They are his family much more than she is, whatever they said last night. But they have time, she tells herself - they can forge that bond in the future, even if they can never acknowledge it openly.

“Whatever it is, you can trust us,” Lady Sansa tells Jon, and Lady Arya nods along with her. “You’re our brother, there’s nothing you can’t tell us.”

“But that’s just it!” Jon blurts out. “I’m not your brother! Father - he’s not my father, at least not by blood. My mother was Lyanna Stark. My father was...he was Rhaegar Targaryen. Father - your father, he found my mother at the Tower of Joy, dying. He had to promise her he’d protect me. If King Robert had known -”

“He’d have killed you,” Lady Arya quietly finishes for him. “Like Tywin Lannister killed Aegon and Rhaenys for him. So Father took you home and raised you as his bastard son.”

It’s disturbing how little her face or voice betray of her emotions - Lady Sansa, in contrast, has gone white as snow, her slender fingers curled tightly around Jon’s wrist.

“Yes. He never even told your mother, he let her believe he had broken his vows. He risked both their happiness, his family’s happiness, all for me.” 

Dany hasn’t thought of it like this before, but apparently, Jon has, and a great deal judging by how disturbed he sounds as the idea.

“He loved you.” Lady Sansa’s voice is firm, not allowing for any doubt. “You were his blood - son or nephew, it didn’t matter. It _doesn’t_ matter. Not to him, and not to us. You’re family. And I think…” She smiles sadly as she goes on, “I think Mother would understand, now. _Family, Duty, Honour_ \- I don’t believe the order is a coincidence.”

“Sansa is right, it doesn’t matter,” Lady Arya agrees.

“It does! Because that’s not all. I’m not just telling you that I’m Lynna Stark’s bastard instead of Ned Stark’s. I’m telling you that I’m Rhaegar Targaryen’s son. His _trueborn_ son. He didn’t kidnap Lyanna, or rape her. They were in love and ran away together. At Oldtown, Gilly and Sam found the diary of the Septon who annulled Rhaegar’s marriage to Elia Martell and married my parents. I’m - my name is not even Jon Snow, it’s Aegon Targaryen.”

Stunned silence follows his words, then Lady Sansa’s whisper breaks it - Dany had no doubt that she’d understand immediately.

“You’re the rightful heir to the Iron Throne.” She turns to Dany, her hand still on Jon’s arm. “This is what you wish for us to keep confident. That there is somebody who has a greater claim than you.”

“It is,” Jon says before Dany can answer. “We’re both asking you not to tell anyone. I don’t want the Iron Throne, Sansa. I may be a Targaryen, but this is my home. And I never even wanted to be a king in the first place, you know that.”

Slowly, Lady Sansa nods, and Dany dares hope. 

“It won’t work, you know.”

Jon frowns at Lady Arya. “What do you mean?”

“Keeping it secret - it won’t work. Such things always get out in the end. All it takes is one wrong word at the wrong time, one servant overhearing something, and there’ll be a rumour that can’t be taken back or controlled. I’d agree to it, but it won’t work like that.”

“She’s right,” Lady Sansa says, and Dany wants to scream in frustration. She never should have consented to this! 

“The Iron Throne is mine.” She forces herself to stay calm, forces her voice into steely compliance. “I’ve fought for it, and I’ve paid for it, all my life as a woman grown, and before. Nobody must know. It is the only way.”

The tension in the room is palpable - for a few long moments, Dany fears that their fragile truce is about to break.

“I believe there’s another way,” Lady Sansa says, letting go of Jon’s wrist as she turns to Dany once more. “We want an independent North with Jon on the throne, and you want the Iron Throne with your claim undisputed. I think we can make it happen without any more secrets.”

“How?” It would be the ideal outcome, but Dany can’t see how it would come to pass.

“Think about it. Two kingdoms. Two Targaryens. If you stand before the lords and inform them of your decision, _together_ \- the Northen lords already chose Jon as their king when they thought he was Ned Stark’s bastard. It won’t matter so much to them that he’s Rhaegar Targaryen’s son, because he’s a Stark by blood through his mother. He could even take her name, now that we know that he is trueborn. They’ll much prefer being ruled by him as an independent kingdom over the North being ruled from the Iron Throne, even if it’s he who is sitting on it. And as for the South...”

“It could work,” Jon takes up the idea from her. “If we show them unity - the Southern lords might grumble at first, but if we stand together and make it clear that this is how we divide the kingdoms between us… And it’s not as if no Targaryen ever refused the Iron Throne before. Maester Aemon at the Night’s Watch - Dany, he was your father’s uncle, his father’s older brother. He would have been king, but he refused.”

“After we finish with Cersei, you’ll invite the Southern lords to King’s Landing to bend the knee,” Lady Sansa goes on again. “They know you have dragons - you’ve used them against the Lannister army, and you’ll use them to defeat Cersei. They won’t dare staying away and risking your wrath. Then the two of you can address them together.”

Dany’s head is swirling. Could they be right? Could it work this way? “What about those who’d rather have Jon rule? You know as well as I do that many won’t take kindly to a woman sitting the Throne - even if I had the better claim, some might prefer a man instead.”

“If they feel that strongly about which Targaryen they want to bend the knee to, I’ll cordially invite them to relocate to the North with their families,” Jon says with a half-smile. “I doubt very much that they’ll flock to me in great numbers. They’ll take the ‘wrong’ Targaryen and their comfortable southern keeps over a new life among strangers and summer snows, you can count on it.”

“And,” Lady Sansa adds, “you have Dorne backing your claim, you have at least part of the Greyjoy forces, and all that is left of the North. The new Lord of the Stormlands will declare for you as well, since you made him, and the Vale will follow our lead - I’m sure Lord Royce will convince cousin Robin that it’s in his best interest. Most of the Great Houses’ bannermen will follow them. And then who is left? The Reach has no leader right now, neither do the Riverlands. And the Westerlands . . . after Cersei’s death, Casterly Rock should go to Lord Jaime - or Lord Tyrion, depending on your decision. In either case, I doubt you’ll have to worry.”

More and more, this is making sense to Dany. If only she could be certain! But there is no certainty to be had, she’s had to learn that long ago. There is one thing, though, that she can do.

“I believe you are right,” she says, “and there’s one more thing that will help convince them: I will make one of Jon’s children my heir.” 

In a way, it is bitter - one more concession she has to make. Then again, who better to rule after her than one of her nephew’s children, the only children with Targaryen blood that will ever be born? They will be her rightful heirs.

“But what about your own children? This is too much, Dany. You can’t do it.”

She smiles sadly at Jon. “I can, and I must. Years ago, a witch killed my unborn son and cursed my womb. My dragons are the only children I will ever have.” It’s not something she wanted any of them to know - all of this is too close, too personal. This is not the kind of conversation she ever thought to have with these people. But Jon is her family, and they are his, and they’re all here, together, trying to find a way. 

“I’m sorry to hear it, Your Grace.” It’s Lady Sansa, and there is more true emotion in her voice than ever before when she had spoken to Dany. “But - does this mean, then, that the two of you are not going to be together? I think we all assumed that you would.”

“It does.” Dany isn’t ready yet to tell them that she loves another, not when he might not survive, but luckily, that is not necessary. “Last night when we talked, we decided that it would be best not to continue the Targaryen tradition.”

She seeks Jon’s gaze, hoping he’ll understand what she wants to keep from them for now. 

“She is right,” he says. “I love her, but now that we know who I truly am - it’s just not a good idea. We’re family, that’s got to be enough.”

“You can never have too much family.” Lady Sansa ponders for a moment. “It could have helped to convince the Southern lords who might prefer Jon if you two had got married, but since you couldn’t have heirs together, this is better for our plan as well. I’m certain they will settle for his son to succeed you.”

“Or his daughter,” Dany corrects, and Lady Sansa smiles.

“Or his daughter.” 

“Is this the plan, then?” Lady Ara asks. “It’s a much better one than trying to keep it all secret and hoping it won’t blow up in our faces.”

“It is,” Dany confirms, and Jon agrees.

“It’s a good plan. We can make it happen if we work together.”

“It’s settled, then.” Dany barely manages to prevent herself from slumping down on one of the chairs. She never would have suspected any of what happened today. Almost, she dares hope that she has found true allies here. She hadn’t expected it to go like this, for them to be so ready to work together, find a solution that would serve all of them. Not after how everything had gone before. Maybe sacrificing the North made all the difference, maybe she truly hadn’t realised how fiercely protective they are of their home. 

However, there’s one issue that still needs to be addressed.

“Samwell Tarly.”

He’s kept silent this entire time, watching it all play out - he’s the only one here who is not related by blood to any of them, but if she understands it correctly, he is like a brother to Jon, and through more than their Night’s Watch oath.

“Your Grace.”

He looks nervous, but neither frightened nor angry, and Dany hopes it’s a good sign.

“Now that the Night King and his army are defeated and the people who come from beyond the Wall are our allies, would you say that the men of the Night’s Watch are still bound by their oath?”

She can tell he is surprised by the question, but then he takes the time to think it over. “Well...it _is_ an oath for life. But I don’t believe they ever imagined this happening when they came up with it, they never thought the threat might be over someday. So...no, I don’t think so.”

“I agree. With that out of the way, I would offer you your father’s title and lands once I have conquered the Iron Throne, but I suspect that bending the knee to me is not something you might wish to do.” It’s absurd, she thinks - she killed his father and brother for their refusal to bend the knee, and now this. Yet he healed Ser Jorah, and for that alone, she’ll be forever in his debt.

He smiles grimly. “That’s...very kind, Your Grace, but you’re suspecting right. I’m sure you’ll understand if - if I’m one of the few who’ll take Jon up on his offer, if he’ll have me, that is.”

“Of course I’ll have you!” Jon says, stepping forward to clap Samwell’s shoulder. “You’re as good as my brother, and you know it. You’re welcome in the North, and your family as well, if they want to. Whether you want to be a Maester here at Winterfell or somewhere else or...” He interrupts himself and smiles, it’s almost wolfish, and Dany wonders what he might be thinking of. “What do you say to being Lord Tarly of the Dreadfort? The Boltons are gone, and I need someone I can trust to take over there.”

If she didn’t feel so exhausted - and if it weren’t completely inappropriate - Dany might laugh at poor Lord Tarly’s face.

“But Jon - that’s - I mean I can’t…” He closes his eyes for some moments – to gather his thoughts, Dany assumes. “I’m not a lord,” he says in the end, “and you know it, Jon. I’m not the right kind of man for the position. They’d only…I couldn’t fulfil people’s expectations.”

“But that’s the beauty of it, “Jon says, apparently not at all deterred by his friend’s objections. “If I’ve learnt one thing, then it’s that the smallfolk don’t care much what their lord is like as long as their bellies are full and he’s just and will allow for exceptions sometimes if they can’t pay the taxes on time. You’d be your own man – there’s no need to conform to your father’s expectations. Who’s to say a lord shouldn’t like reading and knowledge and healing and everything that a Maester does? It can only be useful for them in the long run.”

“I still can’t fight,” Lord Tarly protests, but Dany can see he is thinking about it – wanting it. She doesn’t know the story behind him having gone to the Wall, but this conversation alone is telling enough. And she does know that he was the older brother.

“You can. You killed a White Walker, you fought in the battle for Castle Black, and here as well, against the Night King’s army. And you know better than to think all lords who ever lived were great warriors, or that their men didn’t respect those who weren’t. There’s more than one way to be a lord, and you can find your own.” Jon’s speaking quieter now, but still loud enough for Dany to hear. “Don’t think that just because your father or fools like Thorne couldn’t appreciate other qualities in a man, everyone else will be like them.”

“You’ll be a good lord,” Lady Sansa chimes in. “You care about the smallfolk and what they need. The Boltons were callous and cruel; I’m sure people will be glad that their new lord is different.”

Looking back and forth between them, his resistance is crumbling. “All right, I’ll do it.” He shakes his head. “Gilly won’t believe she’ll be a real Southern Lady.” 

“Don’t you mean a Northern one?” Lady Ara asks.

Jon chuckles. “To the Free Folk, everything this side of the Wall is the South. I’m glad you’re accepting, Sam.” He holds out his arm, and he and Lord Tarly grasp each other by the elbows. “We can do the whole bending the knee business later, in public, once everyone knows we’re splitting the realm and I’m staying king.”

“Thank you, Jon. This…it means a lot.”

“To me as well. We have to rebuild the North, and I’m counting on your help.”

Dany can see how having a man like Lord Tarly would be useful, and she tells herself not to forget to find a good Maester for the Red Keep once she has taken it – she certainly won’t keep Cersei’s.

“Congratulations, Lord Tarly of the Dreadfort,” she says once the two have parted. “I wish you and your family the best in your new home. You returned Ser Jorah to me when we both feared he had no hope left, and despite everything else, I will always think of you with gratitude.”

“I’m glad I could do it, Your Grace.”

“Is there anything else we need to discuss?” Lady Sansa asks after a short silence, when neither Dany nor Jon make to speak. “If not, Lord Royce wanted to talk to me about the supplies, and I don’t want to let him wait any longer.”

“No,” Dany says. “I think we should all go back to our duties. We can reveal our decision to the lords tonight – what do you think, Jon?”

“There’s no reason to wait,” he agrees.

Dany isn’t exactly looking forward to it. She takes a last look at the people who she now hopes she can count on as allies in the future – Lady Sansa, eager to go on caring for her people and everyone else who is currently at Winterfell; Lady Arya, who Dany suspects will now go train in the yard as she does every morning; Samwell Tarly, smiling to himself and looking half thrilled and half frightened. Bran Stark, who has kept impassive all throughout their talk, watching them in silence as he watches everyone and everything. And Jon – he looks younger than yesterday, she thinks, the lines of worry on his forehead less pronounced. 

No, she isn’t looking forward to it, but if everything works out as they planned, it’s a price she is ready to pay.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I'm sorry it took me so long to update, RL was in the way. But I hope some of you are still with me ;)

"I know you’d tell me I have a right to all seven kingdoms, and I do, but it’s better this way. It bought their alliance, and that’s what I need here if I want to rule, isn’t it? It won’t work the way we did it in Essos, not in the long run.”

She gets no answer; Ser Jorah lies still and lifeless, his calloused hand hot in Dany’s, sweat running down his face in large, glistening beads. Dany talked to Grey Worm after meeting with the Starks, and he reported that only nine out of nearly a hundred injured Unsullied died last night, all the others – at least those who survived the battle – are out of danger. Ser Jorah is not out of danger; he survived the night, much to Maester Wolken’s surprise as he told her first thing in the morning, but the blood loss has weakened him greatly, and the fever might be too much still.

“I need allies like them,” she tells him, “but more than them, I need you. You can’t leave me.”

She can’t know if he hears her, but if he does, she knows he will fight, like he always does. For her.

On the bedside table, there is a bowl with water and some clean rags; Dany wets one of them and carefully washes his face. He sighs as the cool cloth touches his forehead – which is a good sign, isn’t it? – and she takes her time, mapping his face: his wrinkled brow, the cheeks and chin rough with stubble, the folds of his neck, which must have been smooth once, when he was her age.

He has been taking care of her for so long, now it’s her turn to give something back to him, however little it may help. If only there were something more she could do! Dany has never been very patient; she knows it’s one of her weaknesses.

There’s a sound from across the room, then another, and Dany turns to see Theon Greyjoy toss and turn under his furs, moaning – whether from pain or from nightmares, she can’t tell. Dany gets up and walks over to him; he, too, is burning with fever, face red and drenched in sweat. He’s mouthing words, but Dany doesn’t hear anything; it’s only when she brings her ear close to his face that she understands them.

“Bran,” he murmurs, “San…Sansa…” He keeps repeating their names in between quick, shallow breaths, and Dany means to hear “safe”, too, and “sorry”.

“They’re all right,” she tells him as she touches his shoulder. “Bran and Sansa, and Jon and Arya, too. They’re all safe, the battle is over.”

She’s got to repeat it several times before he falls silent; like with Ser Jorah, she isn’t sure whether he heard her at all. But he’s still restless, and he, too, has a bowl of water standing at his bedside. Just when Dany presses the wet cloth to his forehead the door opens behind her.

It’s Lady Sansa, and Dany cedes her place, offering the cloth to her. She accepts it with a grateful nod and goes on washing Lord Greyjoy’s face with the same slow, gentle touches as Dany had used on Ser Jorah.

“He’ll live,” she says quietly when she is almost finished and Lord Greyjoy has calmed again, and it takes Dany a moment to understand that the words were addressed to her. “They survived the night, now they’ll both live, they have to.”

It's wishful thinking, but it’s no different from Dany’s own hope.

“Do you keep the Seven, Your Grace?”

“Not really,” Dany says. “I wasn’t taught much about them, or about any other gods.” The servants who had raised her in the beginning had spoken of the Seven, but there were no Septs in Essos, and she had never quite believed their tales. Viserys had told her that they needed no gods – they were Targaryens and would take what was theirs with fire and blood. Neither the gods of his father nor those of Essos had featured into his plans, neither had ever helped them. And everything Dany has accomplished so far, she has done by her own strength.

“You still keep the old gods in the North, do you not?” She knows nothing about them, only that they are prayed to under trees.

“I used to favour the Seven. They were my mother’s gods,” Lady Sansa explains as she puts away the damp rag and rises from Lord Greyjoy’s bedside. “My father built her a sept here at Winterfell. But these days, I find myself praying to the old gods instead. Going South has never brought my family luck, and the Seven never seemed to answer.”

Dany doubts that the old gods are any different but knows better than to say it out loud.

“Will you come with me to the godswood, Your Grace? I would like to go and pray for Theon, and I thought maybe you’d like to pray for Ser Jorah as well.”

Dany doesn’t believe it will make any difference, but she hates feeling this helpless, and it’s the only thing she _can_ do for him now. And they’re his gods as well, aren’t they, so it would make more sense for her to come to them with this than the Seven. They’ve never spoken about faith but once, late at night as they’d sat together in front of her tent in the sands of Essos. He had told her of Bear Island, then, and how he missed the godswood where he would pray.

“The Gods can’t hear me here,” he’d said, and she had wondered if he was feeling as displaced as her, or even more.

“Thank you,” she tells Lady Sansa now, “I’ll gladly go with you.”

They leave Ser Jorah and Lord Greyjoy with one of the servants who watch over them and head for the main entrance. It’s still uncomfortable between them, and Dany wishes she could spend more time with Missandei instead – with her, there is no awkward silence, no need to carefully choose every word in order to not cause offence. But Lady Sansa invited her, and it’s more than Dany would have hoped for just a short while ago. She can’t miss this chance.

Once they have donned furs and gloves against the cold and stepped outside into the yard, Lady Sansa offers her arm, and Dany takes it without hesitation. It’s a clever demonstration, she thinks as they slowly make their way towards the godswood, as most everything she has seen Lady Sansa do and say is clever. Their people are watching them, and Dany makes a point to look engaged, to nod and smile as they talk about supplies and the progress of the clean-up. It’s not hard to do, she finds, now that she no longer feels so unwelcome.

As they walk through the crumbled gate to the godswood, though, Dany isn’t so sure of that anymore. Despite the daylight it’s dark here, the trees looming over her like ancient giants, and the thick snow that has fallen since the battle seems to swallow all sound. She’s walked through old forests before, back in Essos, dangerous to be sure, with trees taller than these and wild beasts roaming, easy to get killed or lost in forever. There are no wild beasts here and the forest is small, walled in on all sides by the castle, and yet…

She chances a look at Lady Sansa – they’re still walking arm in arm – and finds her returning her gaze. Has she been watching Dany?

“When I went South to the capital with my father, before the war, I was eager to leave,” Lady Sansa says. “I wanted to experience something different, to go someplace where there would be more than the cold and the snow and my family. I expected gallant knights and beautiful ladies like in the songs, tourneys, and whatever else a sheltered, silly child might imagine finding at court.” Her lips purse, and she looks away from Dany at the path ahead. “What I found were lies and cruelty, a nest of vipers painted over with gold and false smiles. My father never truly wanted to go. I didn’t understand him at first, but I learnt my lesson soon enough. Since the day he was falsely arrested, all I wanted was to return home again.”

Dany wonders what she wants to tell her when they stop walking at the edge of a clearing. In the middle of it, there is a tree unlike any Dany has seen before. It’s taller than the others, with thick branches spreading from the trunk not far above the ground. Its leaves are the colour of blood, and its bark – if she didn’t know better, Dany would think the tree wasn’t made of living, growing wood, but of bone.

“When we first met,” Lady Sansa goes on, “and the only thing you could think to say to me was that I was beautiful…” She shakes her head, letting go of Dany’s arm as she turns to face her. “All I could see was Cersei. Another queen who came North, believing that Westeros and its people were hers to rule for no other reason than because she wished it so, and that shallow compliments could hide her true intentions. Another viper. Cersei fooled me at first, but I wouldn’t let you do the same. That day, I told you that Winterfell was yours, but it never would have been. Not in any sense that matters.”

Dany only has to think of how she had felt at the feast to know that the last bit is true. As for the rest, she wants to protest – this is not at all what she had intended! – but Lady Sansa doesn’t give her the time.

“I was wrong in my assessment of you, I have to admit it. You fought with us. And now you relinquished your claim to the North. I can’t help but think that it’s not only because Jon’s claim to the Iron Throne is better than yours and this is how to retain the other kingdoms, or is it?”

“It’s not.” Dany doesn’t relish the idea of discussing her motives, but there is something about the way Lady Sansa tries not to clench her hands by her sides, the way her searching eyes bore into Dany’s that makes her believe she’s sincere. Before the battle, all their interactions had been calmly polite - a mask, Dany realises, nothing more. If she reacts wrongly now...

“I hadn’t understood how much the North means to Jon, to all of you. I’ve never known what it means to have a home like this.” The words taste bitter in her mouth; it’s only Missandei who has ever heard her say them before, and even then, they had been hard to force out. “Growing up, my brother and I were only ever guests in other people’s homes, and Dragonstone and the Red Keep have never been more than tales to me. But this…” She looks around them, gesturing at the snow-covered trees looming above them. “I’ve never been here, and I barely know you, yet I can _feel_ that this is where you belong – and I never will.”

Lady Sansa, and Jon, and the other Northerners Dany has met – they connect with this place, they live and breathe it; the snows and the cold, the spirit and murmurs of age-old trees, the warmth of a fire as the winds howl around Winterfell.

“I envy you.” It slips before Dany can think better of it. “For your home, and your family.” Almost, she feels her voice cracking, and she hates admitting yet one more weakness. Is this truly the way, making herself so vulnerable, when only being strong and keeping her own counsel has ever helped her before?

Then Lady Sansa steps forward and grasps Dany’s hands in hers. “I did mean what I said earlier today: you can never have enough family.” Her fingers tighten around Dany’s as she speaks. “You’re Jon’s family, and he is mine. If we both want it, if we try... I believe we could be family someday.”

Mutely, Dany nods her acceptance – she’d expected anything but this, and she doesn’t know what to say. Her eyes are burning, and she looks down at their clasped hands for a while as heat rushes through her blood, warming her despite the icy winter chill. Thankfully, Lady Sansa gives her the time she needs to compose herself.

“There’s more, though,” she finally says, when she no longer feels as if she might cry once she opens her mouth. “Tell me, what would you be willing to give away if your gods gave you Lord Greyjoy’s life in return?” Looking up into Lady Sansa’s eyes, which are dark with pain at her words, Dany has no doubt that she understands.

“I see. One of seven kingdoms doesn’t seem like too high of a price,” Lady Sansa agrees. Slowly, she steps back, letting go of Dany. “Let us go and pray, then. I hope the gods accept your offer.”

Still, Dany doubts that any gods who could consider it even exist, but she follows Lady Sansa as she approaches the red-and-white tree. When they are close, she sees that there is something carved into its bark, a face contorted in what looks like pain, red tree-sap trickling down from the cuts like blood.

“Is it fresh?” Did they maybe cut it before the battle, in some Northern ritual to ask the old gods for their favour?

“No. The children of the forest cut the faces into the Weirwood trees during the Age of Dawn,” Lady Sansa explains. “Before Bran the Builder built Winterfell eight thousand years ago, this tree was already here, as was its face.” She reaches out, trailing her fingers over the pale bark.

Dany shivers. _Blood and bone of the North_ , she can’t help but think. “How do I pray? What are their names, how do I address them?”

“The old gods have no shapes or names.” Lady Sansa smiles as she looks up into the red canopy. “It used to bother my mother. _How can you pray to someone you don’t even know by name?_ , that’s what she once asked my father. He told her he didn’t need names. That his gods were in the earth, in the winds, the animals, in the snows, and he knew all those as he knew himself. As he knew the North.”

Slowly, Dany thinks she begins to understand. “So, am I right to assume there is no book like the Seven-Pointed Star, and no rituals, either?”

“You’re right. There are no songs or rituals, nothing like with the Seven. Just stand here, or sit, or kneel, and pray in silence. The Gods watch through the faces. Bran says that sometimes, he can hear it in the leaves when they answer.”

She won’t kneel, Dany thinks as she watches Lady Sansa close her eyes and clasp her hands in front of her stomach. Not for men, and not for gods either. Once she sits the Iron Throne, she’ll have to participate in the rituals of the Seven; she hasn’t really thought about it much, but she has realised that if she wants her people to trust her instead of ruling over them with fear, she’ll have to take part in their customs. For now, though, she’s glad that this entails nothing more than thinking her wishes – her prayers – under a tree.

She observes Lady Sansa, who stands still as a statue, a frown on her face as she pleads with her gods for the man she loves, then Dany sits on a large boulder and closes her eyes as well. Not knowing how to begin, all she does is listen to the sounds of the godswood for a long while. It’s silent here, despite the bustle of the castle being so close; all that she hears is her own breathing. It feels natural, peaceful - maybe this silence, too, is part of how Northerners pray?

 _You’re not my gods,_ she thinks in the end, directing her thoughts at the Weirwood, _and you don’t know me, but the one I pray for knows you, and you know him as well. He is Jorah Mormont of Bear Island – of the North. I don’t know if our names mean anything to you, but he has prayed to you under a Weirwood tree in the past, as I am doing now._

Before her mind’s eye, she tries to imagine a younger Ser Jorah, with a less wrinkled face and fuller hair, clad in a warm, furred cloak as he kneels under a Weirwood tree on a small glade. How many times has he talked to his gods like this, and will she ever get to see him in his family’s godswood on Bear Island? It’s something Dany hadn’t realised she wanted before; she’s only ever imagined him by her side in King’s Landing.

She is stirred from her thoughts by approaching footsteps crunching in the snow and looks up: a servant is whispering to Lady Sansa, who turns to leave with him after an apologetic nod to Dany. A ruler’s duties are never far away, Dany thinks, but she can take a bit longer. Again, she closes her eyes.

 _He’s wounded,_ she tells the old gods. _He fought against the army of the undead, he defended me, and all of Westeros. He defended the North, too, your people. Now they’re not sure if he will live or die. But he can’t die on me. I need him. I . . . I love him. If I can be with any man again in my life, it’s him, and now that I realised it, it might be too late. I don’t know what I would do if I lost him._

Right now, she doesn’t even feel as if she could win this war and reign if it happened. She knows that _somehow_ , she would make it through, like she did after Drogo’s death, but she doesn’t want to imagine the pain, and also, it’s not really the same. She was sold to Drogo like cattle, and it was only luck that she learnt to love him – and that she was able to make herself into someone he could love as well. Ser Jorah has only ever loved her for herself.

_Return him to me. If you exist, and if you know him, return him to me. I need him by my side, and it’s where he wants to be._

There is no answer as she stills her thoughts, no breeze rustling the leaves – and had she truly expected it? Dany sighs, listening to the snow-thick silence. Is she a fool for hoping, for being desperate enough to beg for the help of strange gods who have no reason to grant her request?

_I’m letting Jon Snow keep his crown. The people of the North will be free from the Iron Throne, as they used to be. What more could I give you?_

Dany opens her eyes, looking up at the Weirwood leaves, which look like a sea of blood through the warm tears running down her cheeks – and it’s then that she remembers.

It had been when they’d been guests at Lady Galatea’s house in Essos, their host before Magister Illyrio, and Dany can’t have been older than ten or eleven. There had been a teacher, hired to teach her some of her people’s history. He’d been a kindly old man, and she’d cried when he had died after no more than five moons. He had mentioned the old gods – that they were prayed to under trees, as she’d remembered before they went to the godswood, but also that there used to be Weirwood trees all over Westeros, and that the Andals had cut all of them them down south of the Neck, when they conquered these lands, bringing with them the faith of the Seven.

Now, Dany knows what she can offer.

“If he lives, I’ll plant a Weirwood in the godswood at the Red Keep. I’ll have to keep the new gods, too, for my people, and I can’t make them believe in you, but I swear it to you: if Jorah lives, the old gods will be worshipped by the Iron Throne, and everyone in Westeros will know it.”

Again, all that follows is silence, and after a while, Dany smiles, shaking her head. The magic she’s witnessed, the eerie atmosphere of the godswood, her desperate wish for Ser Jorah’s survival – together they made her almost believe that it might be possible, that men could talk with gods – if they exist at all – and receive an answer. Well. She knows better now. All she can do is wait and hope. But she won’t renege on her promise: if Ser Jorah survives, she will plant a Weirwood tree and pray under it for all the world to see, no matter the existence of any gods, old or new.

It’s at that thought that a gust of icy wind hits her, freezing the last tears on her cheeks and making the leaves above her rustle. When it has passed, one large, blood-red leaf slowly floats down, settling on the snow just before her. It could be a sign – or it could be coincidence. Either way, Dany is glad she came here today. If she hadn’t, she would not have the new understanding with Lady Sansa, and the quiet here has helped her clear her mind. It’s not so hard to see the appeal of going to the woods for prayer.

She is still contemplating it when she hears footsteps and looks up to see Missandei approaching.

“Your Grace! It’s Ser Jorah – his fever broke. He’s awake and asking for you.”


End file.
